


The Winged Survivor

by Harrisam



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Resident Evil 7, Blood and Gore, F/M, I am so sorry, I mean tons of gore, No Hannibal Lecter this time fellas, Original Characters are inspired by the game characters, Purple Prose, Southern Scenery, Torture, Will Graham cusses a lot, Will Graham is getting tortured
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:02:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29127657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harrisam/pseuds/Harrisam
Summary: After receiving a message from his presumed dead wife, Will is sent into another investigation despite some protests from his peers. His persistence finally gets him his wife, but also gets him something a lot more sinister.Delving into southern scenery, giving complex voices to underrated characters, and exploring body horror in written form, this mashup of RE7 and Hannibal will be something worth reading. (If I do get along to finishing it, that is.)
Relationships: Molly Graham/Will Graham
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	The Winged Survivor

Will sits on a wooden seat weakened with age, creaking in every slight movement he performs. He speculates what force is needed to break the bench as a way to sidetrack his mind. He wasn't very good at avoiding important topics, procrastination despite hated becoming a challenge his mind wanted to indulge in. In work there was no procrastination, only raring up to go and going until someone stopped you before it became too much. And you are left constantly dissociating and with another urge to drink. _That_ was work.

Molly was never his work; rather the opposite. She wasn't the strict lieutenant that pushes him to his very limit, or the criminals that performs deadly theatrics on innocent people. She was a fashionista who cared more about what games were on and what food they wanted for next week. She was an attention-crazed cat who enjoyed dancing alone in her socks while cooking. Molly would think work an afterthought.

What irony. For now she was his forethought.

He didn't blame the people that mourned her. Didn't scoff at how they talk about her in past tense. Hell, he didn't even judge them for thinking that if someone is missing for 3 years then they are dead (despite it being 7 years). Grief from the unexplained is common, and it hurts so strong. Grieving spent mimicking someone else's grief because he's so used to being used as a vessel. A network of emotions all connected into one brain. Somehow the lack of his own emotion gave him the comfort of actually not crying at her memorial. He didn't grow somber at the slideshow of her in her proudest moments, nor at the eulogies muttered under choked back sobs or monochrome tones. He awkwardly sat there, mentally telling himself that he was the odd one out of the group.

The feeling wasn't foreign; he felt exactly the same when his father died and his family sobbed right next to his ear. He supposed the reason he was so devoid before was because it wasn't settling. The vision of his casket he remembers was faraway. The sounds were close; as if the sounds were used to convey how he was supposed to feel, how he was going to feel later on in his life. But at that moment he felt there was nothing to do but stand there. A statue of desolation.

This was one of those moments, where people had already left he was the last one sitting there. His stepson out at the house wondering why his dad was gone so long. Will couldn't give Wally an explanation, or else risk the judging glance of an eleven-year-old. He simply had to play the role of a father, a father in Molly's vision. The way she always viewed him.

But there was something itching in the back of his mind. Constantly. And though he tried to satisfy it, it didn't leave him be. Questions littered throughout his mind as he stared at the slightly dirtied purple carpet. Her disappearance begs the question of her last words with him. It was exchanged at the dinner table at the final hour of the afternoon.

_"It isn't often I get out of town for my work. Most of my time is spent at the shop fitting teenagers into their prom dresses. It's about time I get out and check the fashion shows around, probably garner a little inspiration to make my own collection."_

_"Fashion nowadays seems outlandishly bad. It amazes me that the models have the courage to go out there dressed like that."_

_"Hey, don't make fun of fashion visionaries, Will. It matters not about the look but the portrait of a fashionable mind."_

_"And money."_

_"That too. Have you seen how much Gucci costs? I can sell all my kidneys for that."_

_"How many kidneys do you have?"_

_"Hopefully enough to pay for Gucci. But then again, I'm paying more attention to my own brand than others. And hopefully by studying what they do on the runway I can make a name of myself in the fashion world."_

_"Well I support you, just as long as you don't bring a shirt-on-a-shirt here."_

_"Pfft, are you kidding? I'm going to bring a shirt-on-a-shirt-on-another-shirt here. It's all about layers, babe."_

_"Aw hell."_

_"I'm heading down to Washington on Saturday. You think you can handle Wally while I'm gone?"_

_"Can he handle me?"_

_"He started calling you 'dad', Will. Of course he can handle you."_

Will's a dad now.

And his son is alone at the house.

There are light wood chips sticking out of the bench. His hand picks at them individually, tossing them onto the purple carpet floors. Snowflakes of wood are speckled across in front of him, muffled moonlight from the glass mural of Jesus dulling the colors. It is wistfully quiet in the church asides from the slight creak of the bench. In the silence a mental seesaw moved up and down like the ticking of clock, and his eyes fluttered closed. 

_The last known text she sent was her eating at a restaurant in Lexington, approximately at 6:28 P.M. A photo was attached which showed a bowl of spaghetti and a glass of Pinot Noir. Her fingers were laced around the stained glass, a straw swirling around it. Her white sleeves protruded, the brightest thing in the entire picture. Analyzing it, he didn't notice any suspicious person in the corners of the picture. CCTV footage saw her at a gas station nearby to buy a drink for the long road ahead after an hour of her leaving the restaurant. That was the last sighting of Molly. Police in that area interviewed the cashier and he said there wasn't anything suspicious about her. The waitress commented on her being giddy, but nothing visibly different. Traffic cams showed her car driving down I-81, and traveling upward to Mt. Sidney. That was-_

His phone shocked him awake from his thoughts, causing his head to be thrown back in fear before scrambling to reach for the device. He expected it to be a text message from the neighbors, asking why the lights were on in the house when his car wasn't pulled into the driveway. Yet another judging glance from concerned parents of the neighborhood.

But as he pulled out the phone and turned it on, his mind couldn't process what he saw.

Molly sent an attachment.

Even the creaking stilled at the surprise. The shocking announcement made his heart sink deep into his stomach which made his heartbeat ever prevalent.

Don't fret, it's probably nothing to be worried about.

Even lying won't comfort him.

His hand swiped to look at the message and a picture came up. No words provided, and no context explained, just a bizarre picture. It was a blurry picture, with the camera supposedly in motion while it was being taken. There was no lighting bright enough to show anything, and even if there was it'd still be difficult to make out what exactly was going on. But in the top right, Will could make out a human figure. The motion blur trails made it appear that they were reaching for the camera. His eyes squinted and leaned in. The person reaching was wearing a shirt the color of soiled pearls, with pants the color of the deep sea. Combining details upon details like building blocks, his mind unblurred the image to fit his design.

He lowered his phone, processing the information he had unraveled. One hand reached to rub whatever bleariness he had before his eyes went to look right back at that picture. The blurry picture may seem unimportant to others, but this was everything he needed. No hellos or how-are-yous, but an _image._ The game was still kicking and he knew he had to play.

Another text popped up. This time it wasn't Molly. It was one of the neighbors and to be expected, they raised their concerns with him. He reassured them that he was just looking at Molly's picture one last time before the idea of grief fully settled.

[It's been hard on all of us, Will. Molly was an amazing woman who wanted only the best for her son. Speaking of her son, how is he doing?]

[He's taken it surprisingly well..or at least I think so. I never know what's going in his head, and I don't think he's ready to talk about it yet.]

[Well I say wait it out, eventually he'll talk to you. I know how much Molly wanted to establish a relationship with you two.]

[Will do. Thank you.]

He supposed he'll have to contemplate at home. Will already knows Wally will be passed out on the couch because when he's alone he's usually up watching tv. He'll carry him to his room and then Will will have to find a way to sleep with racing thoughts. He's aware of the impossibility; but he's lacked sleep for days now, and it's only getting more prominent as the days go by. It will just be a struggle, and struggling tires him out easily.

The phone was slipped into his pocket, and he walked over to the standing picture of Molly. Her blonde bangs swooped like country hills over her forehead, and he thought about how he used to push strands behind her ear. Her head would always cock to the side because anything near her ear gets her ticklish. The ticklish side of her would transverse to the happiness she held for everyone aside from Jack Crawford. And her smile, printed wide amongst the picture, boomed louder than any sound ever provided. It's an understatement to say he misses it.

Rest in so-called peace, Molly Foster Graham. Make sure to send the captor his regards.

**Author's Note:**

> Any feedback appreciated! This can also be found on Wattpad underneath the author name: @hot-tamales-for-you ! Hope you enjoy this torture fest! And God help us all :,)


End file.
